


fraying threads

by sylleblossom (kemonomimi)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angeal (Mentioned) - Freeform, Blood and Injury, Character Analysis, Drabble, Drinking, Sephiroth (Mentioned) - Freeform, VR sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29322651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kemonomimi/pseuds/sylleblossom
Summary: the edges of genesis' mind are starting to unravel
Kudos: 5





	fraying threads

**Author's Note:**

> based on my headcanon / what i believe crisis core conveys: genesis was already mentally losing it during the notorious VR fight scene. done as a twitter solo character analysis.
> 
> anyone here from to tame a wolf-next chapter is half-written. health has been a major hold-up in writing longer pieces.

The threads are knotted now and try as he might to unravel them, pick them free, they just grow more tangled together. Memories of good times: sitting on the rooftop of the ShinRa building, three friends still clad in blue; the laughter of throwing a snowball in Sephiroth’s direction and watching him block it as if it were a levin bolt; tresses of moonspun silver, gleaming copper, feathery hair, and sleek raven-wing black locks all pressed together under the loud whirr of a helicopter, sleep claiming the three simultaneously. 

But there is something wrong. Something eats at him, picks at the threads of memories of sneaking into the VR rooms. They were once so fond, two childhood friends playing with Shinra’s posterboy, the strongest of them, the pinnacle of perfection to match or surpass.

Surpass, overcome, prove himself superior—the thoughts are souring the sweetness of sunsets atop of false, simulated canon in Junon. They consume him. Why? Once he was content enough to train his way there patiently. He is aware of his own one-sided rivalry with Sephiroth.

Is he even taking Genesis seriously?

The wine glass in his hand shatters, its contents dripping down his red gloves like diluted blood. He pays no attention to the bleeding puddle on the floor and the shards of glass. Jagged pieces remain sunk into the leather of his gloves. Now the shards are dyeing crimson. 

Mako-stained eyes are unseeing and he moves on autopilot, fingers plucking a plastic bag from his kitchen drawer. Each of the red stained glass slices are plucked one by one like a shattered tableau in a church. The remaining pieces sit in the ugly, stark stain. Those are each placed into the bag carefully as well, the points all too easily able to tear the bag without due caution. When enhanced eyes see no more sparkles of tiny bits on the tile, he ties the bag off and tosses it into the bin.

On the tabletop sits a blue and purple apple, a bruise on white white skin with a stem. He forgets it is sitting there like it does every day. It is meant to serve as a memory. Sharing a dumbapple with Sephiroth; he wanted to save it for a special occasion, the day he truly stands beside him in talent, not just as a friend.

When Genesis drifts into the next room over to retrieve his sword, his shoulder brushes the table. The apple tumbles to the floor.

The soft thump breaks his trance. 

It leaves him racked with guilt. The man in crimson rescues it from the tile and shines it against the black tell-tale turtleneck branding him as one of the Firsts. Why was he feeling so aggressive a moment ago? He has always had a quick temper, just as the whispers say, and often it rears its head during their bouts of sparing, but never before like this.

What is happening to him?  
One more tangle in the long string of his muddled thoughts, isn’t it?

He will not let it bother him. Now is not the time to think about such a thing; the Thirds are leaving soon. Their banter will resume as it always does. This time they plan to project the winter snow of Mideel beneath their feet. It will be a relaxing change.

Yes, a change. He needs a change. Genesis is a rouge chrysalis, soon he will grow his wings and burst free. Changing, he is changing, just like a butterfly, morphing into a stronger man.

Before he leaves his apartment he pauses, realizing the pool of wine and blood remains, reflecting his distorted face. He needs to clean that up first. He shoots the pair of his friends a text. 

He will be late this time, for once.


End file.
